Live Mental--Life With Bipolar Disorder, Among Other Things: Longing

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Longing

There is a longing that is special...filled with all the beautiful words that express both loss and joy. It fills your life with what should be and what needs to be. It can't be bought or traded, and even if found, may not stay.

There is a longing that is for one person, one who has not been found. Sometimes this longing takes flight and echos through the life like the sound of wolves howling under a luminous moon. Other times it floats as a leaf, soft and falling in the life as rain pattering a rhythm on a porch railing.

There is a longing deep within that takes the breath away as a knife being removed from a wound. It bleeds into the everyday life and events, taking hold of each moment to sear the core. And as the steam rises from life, the longing is branded and waiting to be seen or caressed away by the only one who can.

There is a longing that is my bane. It haunts my every waking hour and takes my next step. Longing for another is a desperate thing, especially when it cannot be, when life has taken away my options, pointing me to a place with no width and a depth that is murky at best. It mocks my tight space and teases me unto memory.

There is a longing that is fulfilled and then needs to be filled again. It is for that person, that one for whom touch is inevitable and seeing is believing in a way that transcends the actual ability of the eye. The tactile sensation of being touched and knowing that person is for you and about you, as you are for and about them orchestrates a symphony of sensory explosion as two hearts conduct the movement.

There is a longing that takes me past myself and all I know to be by observation. It puts me in line with the one I long for and even if only in my mind's eye I see, I am brought to weakness at the thought of a smile, a touch, a sweet and caressing kiss that gives so much soul as it takes nothing for its own. The imprint of loves words; the link of two hearts brought together by serendipity and sealed by simpatico.

Oh longing bring the one. Be kind to those who cannot meet your terms and make last those moments of the sublime. Take not from the story that has been read and add not what is not yours to contribute. Be the path between the two, clear and true. Show mercy in the aches of love and always, always leave with the night and stay away and allow hope to usher in the dawn.

Life' s little ironies

I sat on a stool at the end of the counter watching my friend, inventory merchandise she had just received for her natural foods store. We were just catching up on all the gossip in small town Powell when the door was flung wide and a woman who looked to have wandered far and away from the red light district of some other state (none of the towns in Wyoming are big enough to have red light districts) made a rather dramatic entrance.

“Sarah, where is your mother,” she asked, though it sounded more like an exclamation than a question as she hurled the words like small pebbles at my friend. She stepped forward slamming the door shut behind her, its little jingly bells that announced a new caller sounding wildly with the force. The woman took another step forward toward the counter glancing briefly my way, and then dismissing me once she had determined me of no use to her. I heard Sarah answer but what she said was lost to me as I stared in fascination at the woman.

Her hair was a very yellowed bleached blonde with dark roots of about two inches. Her makeup was thickly caked on her face, her eyes painted with frosty baby blue eye shadow. She wore a white tank top that was low cut and kept falling off one shoulder. She had on a wide black belt over her hot pink miniskirt, which was so short it hardly qualified as one. Leopard tights and high-heeled boots completed the ensemble. She was tall and thin and I had the impression of taffy having been pulled to distortion.

But it wasn’t the ensemble that had me entranced. No. It was something else. There was an energy emanating from her; a kind of frenetic-ness that had me both fascinated and frightened. She was hurling words at my friend so fast and with such force, I expected to see Sarah thrown backward from the impact as if hit by bullets. I realized I was staring openly, my mouth ajar, and quickly shut it. I felt as though I was watching a human bomb detonating right in front of my eyes. I couldn’t even concentrate on what she was saying, or even understand it for that matter. I marveled at Sarah’s composure and ability to decipher what the woman was saying, such was the speed of her dialogue.

In my mind it seems as though the conversation was lengthy, but in reality I believe it only lasted a few minutes. The woman left in the same manner she had come, throwing the door open. It swung shut with a swoosh of air, leaving a final benediction of the small jingling bells. I looked at Sarah and said, “What was the matter with that woman? She acts like she’s on drugs.”

Sarah smiled calmly, “No she’s not on drugs. She’s a friend of my mom’s. She has a mental illness called manic-depression.” (bipolar disorder)

I stared out the glass door, still able to see the woman’s retreating form. I sighed, looking up at the ceiling for a moment feeling drained and thinking, “I am so glad I don’t have that.” I was frightened by what I had witnessed and I was so relieved to know I wasn’t like her.

It wasn’t too many years later as I sat in a doctor’s office looking at the ceiling that I remembered the incident with the woman in Sarah’s shop. I was in a psychiatrist’s office and he was in the process of diagnosing me with bipolar disorder, otherwise known as manic-depression. Generally I appreciate irony in life. It is often amusing. In this particular case, though, I was not amused.

Live Mental--Life With Bipolar Disorder, Among Other Things

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Longing

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Life' s little ironies

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